


rarely make history

by alongthewatchtower



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Female Josh Lyman, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:55:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7829509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewatchtower/pseuds/alongthewatchtower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime in the two hours Joss was away from her office, a rushed dinner and a television appearance and - oh, yeah, offending Mary Marsh and the entirety of the religious right - in that time, a quote appeared on her blackboard in messy-but-somehow-still-gorgeous handwriting (thanks, Sam). <i>"A woman is like a tea bag – you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water."</i></p><p>Joss sighs, and slumps in her chair. It's going to be a long week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As far as mornings go, this is not one of Joss Lyman’s best.

She wakes up with her face stuck to a binder, because her beeper is going off next to her head. It’s apparently 6am. She’s been in her current pantsuit since the previous morning, she’s had about a hundred cups of coffee since yesterday and maybe an hour of sleep, and she’s not even willing to speculate on the rat’s nest that her hair probably is right now. It’s not one of her best mornings, but it’s kind of sad that it’s nowhere near her worst. It’s not even the worst morning she’s woken up in her office. Not by far.

Blearily, she reaches for her pager, scrubbing a hand over her face that comes away with the last of yesterday’s mascara.

 _POTUS in bicycle accident._  

Of course.

  
*

An hour later finds Joss in pretty much the same state of disarray as when she woke up, except someone’s put a fresh pot of coffee on, and Joss stole a few minutes to go change her underwear and attempt to work miracles with a mascara wand and the very last of her stick concealer. (Donna thinks it sounds incredibly slutty, keeping a change of underwear at the bottom of your bag, but Joss got into the habit during her years majoring in sleep deprivation with a minor in caffeine intake at Harvard, and it comes in handy now.) Ordinarily, this would mean her day’s improving, except that the President is back this afternoon, and she may or may not have a job at the end of the day.

 

And then there’s the Cubans.

 

Not the good kind of Cubans, like the ones Toby smokes occasionally and pretends he doesn’t. Joss is the kind of person who’d be a social smoker if she could, and there’s no denying the fact that, on some people, smoking is sexy. (The last time Joss had a cigarette, she was nineteen and spent an hour vomiting into a potplant. She has a delicate system.) No, these are the kind of Cubans who are making their way to Miami in rickety not-boats, braving ninety miles of open ocean to get to the American dream. No word yet on whether they’re going to ever see the American dream – probably not, even if they do make it. Add to that the fact the US Coast Guard is being supremely unhelpful on one end of the telephone line while Joss attempts to tame her hair one-handed with the other, and it seems like the tone is set for the entire day.

 

“Jocelyn!”

 

That’s Leo.

 

Joss scrambles to her feet, but she’s still on the phone and there’s files on the floor, and fuck, where did her shoes go? Joss feels around with her stocking-feet until she locates a matching pair of shoes. There’s a collection under her desk, ranging from the spiky stilettos she wears to the Hill when there’s Republicans that need smacking down, to the pretty, strappy delicate things she indulges in on the days she gets called a bitch by smartass commentators and smartass Republicans. Today she goes for the sturdy ankle boots that give her a few inches and feel like armour. Today, she’s going to need it.

 

“Joss!”

 

Donna, this time, bellowing on Leo’s behalf, and Joss hops on one foot to the door that leads out to the bullpen, phone between her ear and her shoulder as she fights with the zip on her boot with one hand.

 

Joss claims victory over her boot, zips the other in short order, and very politely orders Commander Lucille Nathan of the US Coast Guard to let her know as soon as they figure out exactly how many Cubans, and when they’ll be arriving, reaching back to slam the phone down as she reaches the end of the cord’s length.

 

Then she’s out the door, meeting Leo at Donna’s desk.

 

“Hey,” she says, and Leo looks her over critically but doesn’t comment. Joss waves her handful of hairpins at him. She’s working on it.

 

“How many Cubans exactly have crammed themselves into these fishing boats?”

 

Leo’s stopped for coffee. It can’t be for himself – he drinks the fancy stuff that the Mess makes him specially, that Joss has so far been unable to wrangle out of them for herself, but he’s standing there at the line of bullpen pots, pouring a cup.

 

Joss sighs. “It’s important to understand, Leo, that by and large, these aren’t fishing boats. You hear fishing boats, you conjure an image of -- well, of a boat, first of all.” Having her hands busy with her hair is seriously hindering her ability to gesture emphatically right now. “What the Cubans are on would charitably be described as rafts. Okay? They’re making the hop from Havana to Miami in fruit baskets, basically. Let’s just be clear on that.” 

 

“We are.” Leo adds two sugars and passes her the coffee. It isn’t exactly conducive to taming her hair right now, but she needs caffeine. Leo obviously thinks so, anyway. 

 

“Donna’s desk, if it could float, would look good to them right now,” Joss says, shoving the hairpins in her pocket and following Leo out into the hall. 

 

“I get it. How many are there?” 

 

“We don’t know.” 

 

“What time, exactly, did they leave?”

 

Joss isn’t sure what’s worse. That she can’t give Leo the answers he needs, or that they don’t have the answers he needs. They _don’t know_. She’s been on the phone with the US Coast Guard for an hour, and she doesn’t know any more than Leo does, and he just walked in the door.

 

“We don’t know.” 

 

“Do we know when they get here?” 

 

“No.”

 

“True or False: If I were to stand on high ground in Key West with a good pair of binoculars, I would be as informed as I am right now.” 

 

“That’s true.” 

 

“The intelligence budget’s money well spent, isn’t it?”

 

And they’re off on a walk-and-talk, the meandering tour from her office to his, because Leo likes to look in on his people at the start of the day. It’s like he’s taking his own personal roll-call. 

 

“Tell them to send the Coast Guard, Leo.” 

 

“The Coast Guard won’t-” 

 

“I understand! But, they’re never going to make it to our territorial waters.” Joss slurps her coffee. "What if the DEA. suspected they had drugs?” It’s a long shot, but it could work. 

 

“Does the DEA. suspect they have drugs?” 

 

“We could make a phone call.” 

 

“Jocelyn!”

 

She has to push, she has to. Because that’s who she is. She’s the one who pushes. Also, it’s the right thing to do, damnit. “If the DEA or Navy Intel thought the Cubans were bringing in drugs, wouldn’t we have to go out there and search those rafts with, you know, guns and, y’know, blankets?”

 

Leo stops in the middle of the Roosevelt Room to give her another one of his critical once-overs. “You look like hell. You know that, don’t you? 

 

“Yes,” she sighs, setting the coffee down so she can finally do the thing with the hairpins. “I do. Did he say anything?” 

 

“Did he say anything?! The President’s pissed as hell at you, Jocelyn. And so am I.” 

 

Joss feels sick. She may have actually stepped in it this time, in such a way that the White House has to cut her loose, and she’ll have to get out of it on her own. Mary Freakin’ Marsh. 

 

“I know.” 

 

“You gotta work with these people. And where the hell do you get off strutting-” 

 

“I know,” she says again, getting frustrated with both herself and her hair, which refuses to be pinned into submission. 

 

“Al Caldwell is a good man,” Leo says, and he’s starting to walk again, which means that Joss has to pick up her coffee and jam the rest of the hairpins into her mouth while they walk. 

 

“Al Caldwell wasn’t there,” she mumbles around the pins. 

 

“I’m saying, you take everyone on the Christian Right, dump them into one big pile, and label them ‘stupid!’ We need these people.” 

 

Joss moves the hairpins from her mouth to her gesturing-hand. “We do not need these people!” They certainly don’t need _Mary Marsh_. 

 

“Joce-” 

 

“We need Al Caldwell. We _want_ Al Caldwell. We do not need John Van Dyke. And we do _not_ need Mary Marsh.” 

 

“And I think there shouldn’t be instant replay in football, but that’ s not my call, now, is it?” 

 

Joss has reached the end of her argument, and they both know it. She stops in the hallway. “It was stupid.” 

 

“Damn straight,” Leo says, continuing on. 

 

“I was right, though,” she calls after him. She made her point loudly, rudely, and it was embarrassing to the White House, and she’d take that part back, but she was right, and she can’t deny the fact that it felt good, biting back at Mary Marsh, who judges Joss’ shoes, Joss’ lack of ring on her finger, the tiny Star of David on a long chain she only wears to pacify her mother that only ever shows outside her clothes when she’s bored and playing with it, or making a point. 

 

As he walks away from her, Joss swears she hears Leo mutter, _“Like I don’t know that.”_  

 

 

*

 

Donna helps her pin the back of her hair into submission. (Joss’s hair is a creature with a mind of its own. She’s been fighting it since she hit puberty, and she keeps it pinned up and scraped back because she doesn’t have the time or the inclination to tame it on a daily basis.) Joss locates her suit jacket, only partially creased, and gets another cup of coffee before she heads to Leo’s office for Senior Staff. 

 

By the time she gets to Leo’s office, they’ve started on the Cubans. In the corner, Ed is asking where the Cubans are headed. 

 

“Vegas,” Joss puts in, taking a seat in front of Leo’s desk. 

 

“Miami,” Sam corrects. “Though I’m not sure how sophisticated their navigational equipment is.” 

 

“Navigational equipment?” Joss grins over at Sam, watching the way he can’t help stop the twitch at the corners of his mouth. "That way is north, I think is pretty much-” 

 

“Joss.” That’s C.J., stepping in front of Joss’s mouth. She could’ve used that last night, but now it’s just frustrating. 

 

“C.J., if one of these guys could throw a split-fingered fastball, we’d send in the USS Eisenhower.” 

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Joss can see the steam starting to come out of Toby’s ears. He’s on a short fuse today - that much is clear. Joss knows that’s probably at least partly her fault. 

 

“That’s not entirely true,” C.J. replies. 

 

“Oh, for God’s sake! Forget about the journey. Okay? The voyage is not our problem.” Okay, so maybe Toby’s mood is pretty much entirely her fault. 

 

“What’s our problem?” 

 

“What to do when the Nina, the Pinta, and the Get-Me-The-Hell-Outta-Here hit Miami.” 

 

“Sam?” 

 

Sam has his thoughtfully earnest face on. Well, most of Sam’s expressions are earnest. The guy’s just built that way. "Can’t send them back. They’ll go to jail, if they’re lucky." 

 

Toby’s wearing his despairing-of-the-American-electorate face again. "We’ll get whacked in what? At least…" 

 

"Three congressional districts,” Sam puts in. "Dade County." 

 

Toby’s on the back-and-forth. "Those seats are gone." 

 

Joss rakes a hand through her hair, too late in remembering she’s already pinned it back tightly. "Not to mention the fact that it’s _wrong_?"

 

"Plus that." Now Joss is thinking about electorates.

 

"What about Texas?" 

 

"I wouldn’t worry about it,” Sam brushes it off, and that’s right. They’re not exactly going to take back Texas anytime soon. 

 

"Keep Joss in the loop on this throughout the day." 

 

Sam does one of his adorable, puppydog double-takes. “Me? The thing is, my day is a little tight…" 

 

"Deal with it,” Toby declares, glad it’s not his problem. 

 

"And I’m happy to. It’s just that…" 

 

Leo looks up over his glasses. “Sam." 

 

"I’m just saying, isn’t this more of a military area?" 

 

The room goes silent as everyone digests Sam's argument in shock. 

 

“Military?" 

 

“Yeah." 

 

Toby’s truly working up a full head of steam, now. "You think the United States is under attack from 1200 Cubans in rowboats?" 

 

"I’m not saying I don’t like our chances,” Sam says, and there’s the smart mouth Joss can’t help but want to … well. Moving on. 

 

"Mind-boggling to me that we ever won an election,” Toby is saying, and Joss doesn’t have time for fantasies. Not today. 

 

"Pat Thomas wants to call up the Guard,” Leo says mildly. 

 

"He shouldn’t,” Joss puts in. 

 

"He’s right,” Sam argues at the same time. 

 

"You send in the Guard,” C.J. says, “and you create a panic situation." 

 

Toby straightens from his irritated slump against the wall. “I agree with Joss. And I agree with C.J.. And I agree with Sam. And you know how that makes me crazy. They’re running for their lives. You don’t have to start a game of Red Rover with Castro. But you don’t send in the National Guard. You send food and you send doctors." 

 

That’s a good idea, actually. And one Joss floated with Leo not twenty minutes ago.

 

"Sam, see that I.N.S. is working with the Red Cross and the CDC." 

 

Sam nods. “Well, I’ve got my guy from CDC on the phone right…" 

 

“Go,” Leo orders. "Talk to him!"

 

Sam heads out, already muttering to himself.

 

Leo looks up. "Moving on."  

 

Joss winces. _Wait for it..._  


  
"Let’s talk about Jocelyn."


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

“… _none of your business_ ,” Joss’ voice says again, through the miracle of VCR. " _Look, if 38 states_ …"

 

“No,” Mary Marsh sniffs, and there’s a double standard there, that this (sensible, married, good of Christian faith) woman can spit and be smug on _Capitol Beat_ but Joss can’t, "Well, I can tell you that you don't believe in any God I pray to, _Ms_. Lyman.” Stress on the _Ms,_  so the good audience is again reminded Joss is nearing 33 and unmarried. "Not any God  _I_ pray to."

 

Joss barks out a half-laugh, forever captured in pixels and audio. “Mrs. M, the God you pray to is too busy being indicted for tax fraud."

 

Joss made enemies enough on the Hill as Chief of Staff to Congressman Brennan, which she knew was inevitable, but it still rankled. Joss is smart, ambitious, opinionated and female, which right off the bat is enough to make her enemy number one in certain circles. She’s tall, plain, Jewish, and fierce, and she’s never the first to back down, even when she should. These days she’s referred to as Leo McGarry’s pitbull, when she’s not just being called _that Lyman bitch_.

 

This isn’t the first time she’s been baited by the religious right, and it’s certainly not the first time she’s bit back like this, but this time may just be the last.

 

Joss rewinds, and again, Mary Freakin’ Marsh says, "I can tell you that you don't believe in any God I pray to, _Ms._ Lyman. Not any God  _I_  pray to."

 

Joss spent her whole life working to get where she is today. She studied _hard_ , she begged off parties and dates and birthday celebrations, never had more than one drink, never took a sneaky puff. She hasn’t slept with anyone in four years, because she knows all too well how a sex life can be used against someone. She’s dodged the grabby hands of senators and aides and shouted policy wonks into submission, worn pantsuits and crippling heels and tamed her hair and _played nice_ , for a given value of nice, to get here. And her big damn mouth is going to be the last straw. 

 

“ _Mrs. M, the God you pray to is too busy being indicted for tax fraud_."

 

President Bartlet’s a good man. Joss is going to have to offer him her resignation.

 

“ _Mrs. M, the God you pray to is too busy being indicted_ -"

 

Donna opens the door. A sign of how much trouble Joss is in is the mug in Donna’s hand. "You shouldn't have worn that blouse on television. It bleeds."

 

Joss snorts. "I don't think it was the blouse that got me in trouble."

 

"No, but I've told you a zillion times."

 

Joss gestures to the mug Donna’s put down in front of her. "What's that?"

 

"It's coffee."

 

Joss winces. "Thought so. What's going on, Donna?"

 

"Nothing's going on,” Donna says, false and light, and Joss wants to smile, because her Donna is such a bad liar.

 

“Donna."

 

"I brought you some coffee,” Donna says, straightening the files and detritus on Joss’ desk.

 

“Donnatella Moss, when was the last time you brought me a cup of coffee?” Joss raises one eyebrow. It’s an arch look she’s worked hard for. Hours of practicing in the mirror that she’ll never admit to. "It was never. You've never brought me a cup of coffee.” Joss doesn’t have a problem with that fact. Donna is her assistant, and she has duties far more important than fetching drinks.

 

"Well, if you're going to make a big deal out of it…"

 

“Donna,” Joss starts, cutting her off. "If I get fired, I get fired."

 

Donna looks down at Joss’ scrawl over the latest HUD memo. "Do you think he's going to do it?"

 

“No,” Joss says, after a moment. _Because I’m going to have to resign, first._

 

“Donna brought you coffee?” Toby is eyeing them both strangely.

 

“Shut up,” Donna tells him, nudging him out of the way so she can shut the door as she leaves.

 

Toby turns to face Joss, and she wonders idly if she’s got too much self-respect to flee her own office. "What did I tell you before you went on the air yesterday?"

 

Joss parrots obediently. "You said,  _'don't get cute with Mary Marsh.’_ "

 

"I said, ' _don't get cute with Mary Marsh_.' I said, ' _Al Caldwell is not to be treated like some revival tent clown.’"_

 

Joss blinks. "Al Caldwell wasn't there!” Maybe if he _was_ , this whole damn mess would have been avoided. Al Caldwell would have never looked down his nose at Joss, would’ve never picked at her in snide ways Joss should be too practiced at ignoring.

 

"He sure as hell was watching!” And Toby’s working up to a full bluster now, so Joss tries to cut it off at the pass.

 

She sighs. "Look, I already took Leo's morning beating. What do you want?"

 

"I  _want_  you to keep your job!” And that’s Toby, who swears he’s not as idealistic as Sam but thinks he can bend the universe to his will all the same.

 

“…How?"

 

"I'm going to make a suggestion, which might help you out,” he says, all glorious quiet deadpan. "But I don't want this to be construed as an indication that I like you."

 

Joss nods gravely. "I understand."

 

"In preparation for the Sunday morning radio address on family values…” 

 

Shit. _Shit._  Joss wants to yell and scream, demand _when the hell_  that got on the schedule, but she knows. This has Leo’s working all over it. This is what the administration has to offer up, in return for the continued, if chastened, employment of one Jocelyn Lyman.

 

Toby is eyeing her as if waiting for the exclamation she bites back. "America for better families,” he’s saying.

 

Joss keeps her mouth shut.

 

"The AAF and Al Caldwell. Mary Marsh. I've invited them all for coffee this afternoon, along with a couple of speechwriters to talk about…"

 

“What they want to hear,” Joss says glumly.

 

“Yes.”

 

Joss is going to have to put on a skirt. She _hates_  skirts. She hates having her legs exposed, always has, wears expensive pantsuits and heels instead. Damnit. 

 

"If you listen carefully, you can hear two centuries of Presidents rolling over in their graves."

  

"Come to the meeting and be nice,” Toby says, still eyeing her as if he can’t believe she’s just going to accept it, that one mutter and a sigh is all the reaction his suggestion is going elicit. "Keep your job."

 

Joss sighs, gets up to find her garment bag. "I'll be there."

 

 

 

*

 

 

“She's gonna try and bait you, Joss, you understand what I'm saying?"

 

Joss hates skirts. Today’s little number is a sensible, knee-length charcoal, with matching suit jacket and neatly pressed silk blouse. She’s wearing ugly, sensible court shoes, and trying to get used to the way the air feels against the bare skin of her calves as they stride down the hall in the direction of the Mural Room.

 

C.J. interprets Joss’ expression (correctly) as meaning her mind is elsewhere. "Are you listening to me?"

 

Joss repeats obediently, "They're gonna try and bait me."

 

"They want you to say something arrogant,” C.J. warns.

 

Joss rolls her eyes. "I don't need baiting for that.” That’s exactly the problem.

 

When they get to the Mural Room, Al Caldwell and John Van Dyke are already there, Mary Marsh between them with her smug superiority and her hands clasped demurely in her lap. There’s pointless introductions all round and Toby apologises for being late, even though they made sure they’d be perfectly on time. Joss sits down, crosses her legs, and shuts her mouth.

 

"We're happy you all could come talk with us today,” Toby starts, polite and almost seeming like he means it. Joss keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the wall over Al Caldwell’s shoulder. A nice bit of … tree mural? “As you know, the President makes a usual Sunday morning radio address, and in a few weeks we've scheduled--

 

Caldwell clears his throat. "Ah, Toby, if I may interrupt for just a moment - the goals and spirit of Christian and Family oriented organisations, while embraced by a great and growing number of Americans, have been met with hostility and contempt by their Government.”

  
_Gee, I wonder why_ , Joss thinks, but keeps her pleasant expression, even though she can see exactly where he’s going with this.

 

“Now, yesterday morning, on the television program Capital Beat, that contempt was given a voice... and a face... and a name.” He looks at Joss.

 

"I'm referring, of course, to you, young lady."

 

Joss ignores the _young lady_  with the ease of long practice. She shifts forward in her seat slightly, hopes she’s coming off as contrite and earnest.

 

"Yes, I know, and I'm glad you brought that up…"

 

He tuts at her, the kindly old man disappointed in the wayward little lamb. "I was surprised at you, Joss. I always counted you as a friend."

 

"I'm honored by that, Reverend,” Joss says. Time to pay the piper. 

 

"First, let me say that when I spoke on the program yesterday, I was not speaking for the President or this administration. That's important to know. Second, please allow me to apologize. My remarks were glib, and insulting. I was going for the cheap laugh, and anybody willing to step up and debate ideas deserves better than a political punch line.” Joss turns to directly face the open scorn directed at her from the couch opposite. "Mary, I apologise."

 

The other woman studies her, no doubt wondering if she can get away with calling Joss’ apology insincere and a meaningless platitude. Al Caldwell is nodding at Joss, though, so probably not.

 

"Good then,” Mrs. Marsh says. "Let's deal."

 

Toby quirks an eyebrow. "I’m sorry?"

 

"What do we get?"

 

Oh _man._  Joss does _not_  want to get in the middle of this. She looks over, but C.J. is studying the binder in her lap intently. No help on that front.

 

"For what?” Toby’s still keeping his cool, but not for long.

 

"For  _insulting_  millions of Americans,” Mary bites out, nose firmly in the air, and oh good, now she’s pissed at Toby, too.

 

"An apology,” Toby says, gesturing at Joss. 

 

Mary straightens her skirt and her sense of superiority. "Sunday morning radio address - public morals. School prayer or pornography, take your pick."

 

" _School prayer or pornography_?!"

  

Whatever happened to _come to the meeting, be nice, remember they’ _re going to try and bait you_?_

 

"It's on every street corner,” John Van Dyke says, pompously offended.

 

"I've seen it,” Toby says wryly. "Mary…"

 

"Condoms in the schools,” she continues, and Joss has to bite her tongue, because damned if she’s going to let this administration be held hostage over her smart mouth. The sharp taste of copper narrows her world to that little hurt, and she tunes back in to hear Toby working up to full bellow.

 

"We have a Surgeon General who says they dramatically reduce the risk of teen pregnancy and  _AIDS_!"

 

"So does abstinence,” Mary says, hackles rising like an offended cat.

 

"Show the average American teenage male a condom,” Van Dyke puts in, trying to wrench the conversation back into civil and calm territory, but Toby's working up to a full head of steam -

 

"And his mind will turn to thoughts of lust," he finishes sagely.

 

Toby’s too far gone for that, though. "Show the average American teenage male a lug wrench and his mind'll turn to-"

 

“Toby!” That’s C.J., wading into the middle of an argument she needs to be far, far away from.

 

Mary glares at them. "School prayer, pornography, condoms. What's it gonna be?"

 

"We're not prepared to make any sort of deal right now,” Toby says through gritted teeth.

 

"Sure we are,” Joss says. She’ll apologise again, if she has to, she’s done worse things than look the grovelling fool in front of the religious right. "Mary…"

 

And there’s the glare directed at her again.

 

"My read of the landscape is that you're cleaning out your desk before the end of business today, so I'd just as soon negotiate with Toby if it's all the same to you,” Mary says, and Joss shuts her mouth with an audible snap.

 

“Mary,” Al cautions, but Mary Freakin’ Marsh is on a roll, she’s finally getting to dress down the uppity little Jocelyn Lyman in a room with no cameras and nobody who can spin this to make her look bad without coming off worse, so Mary just snaps back at him.

 

“Please allow me to  _work_ ,” she says, before turning to eye Joss up and down once more. "It was only a matter of time with you, Jocelyn,” she says, shaking her head as if to say she pities the poor, unwed, ill-behaved woman sitting across from her. "That New York sense of humor was just a…"

 

And Joss is suddenly very aware of where her Star of David is tucked against her breast, but she swallows the hot lump in her throat because she will not, will _not_  be baited into this argument with Mary Marsh -

 

"Mary, there's no need,” Al warns, hands spread wide in a calming motion.

 

Mary Marsh is furious, though, as she spits back at him, "Reverend, please! They think they're so much  _smarter_. They think it’s smart  _talk_. But nobody else does."

 

"I'm actually from Connecticut,” Joss says, ignoring the nuance of that last as best she can, "but that's neither here nor there. The point is, Mary-"

 

"She meant Jewish.” 

 

Toby’s voice brings conversation to a screeching halt, and Joss can’t help the way her eyes close momentarily. That - that right there, that’s what she’s been trying to avoid, to talk her way around, but Toby apparently won’t let it pass.

 

"When she said _‘New York sense of humour’_ ,” Toby says to Joss, a glare of his own for Mary Marsh, "she was talking about you and me."

 

Joss can’t respond the way he wants her to. She can’t. "You know what, Toby, let's just not even go there."

 

Caldwell nods. "There's been an apology. Let's move on."

 

Van Dyke jumps. "I'd like to discuss why we hear so much talk about the First Amendment coming out of this building, but no talk at all about the First Commandment."

 

Mary is _quietly_  furious, now. "I don't like what I've just been accused of,” she says, which is so very unfair because Toby’s accusation _wasn’t._

  


Toby tells her as much. "I’m afraid that's just  _tough_ , Mrs. Marsh."

 

"The First Commandment says _'Honor thy Father'_ ,” Van Dyke continues, and Joss wishes there was something handy she could smash her head against. Maybe CJ's binder.

 

"No it doesn’t,” Toby says, and he’s right, but this isn’t going to help.

 

“Toby-" she starts.

 

"It doesn’t!"

 

“Listen-"

 

“No!” Toby says, and he’s furious on her behalf, as well as his own, and Joss knows he’s not going to just let this go.

 

“If I'm gonna make you sit through this preposterous exercise, we're gonna get the names of the damn commandments right!"

 

Mary Marsh throws up her hands. "Okay. Here we go."

 

"' _Honor thy Father'_ is the Third Commandment!” Toby bellows.

 

Van Dyke is almost on his feet bellowing back at him. "Then what's the _First_  Commandment?"

 

" _I am the Lord your God_ ,” A voice cuts in, and Joss has to fight the instinctive slump of relief. She’ll have to offer him her resignation in a few minutes, but right now, President Bartlet is going to help sort out this mess, and Joss gets to her feet. " _Thou shalt worship no other God before me_. Boy, those were the days, huh?"

 

Everyone stands, Caldwell, bobbing his head. "Good afternoon, Mr. President."

  


"Al. What do we got here, C.J.?"

 

"Well, we've got some hot tempers, Mr. President,” C.J. replies, but Joss is watching the tightness around the President’s eyes, the way his knuckles are white on the grip of the cane he’s using in deference to his sprained ankle.

 

“Mary,” the President says, voice cool but smile genial.

 

"Mr. President, I'm John Van Dyke,” the man says, taking a half-step forward. "May I ask you a question, sir?"

 

"Of course."

 

Van Dyke stands a little straighter. "If our children can buy pornography on any street corner for five dollars, isn’t that too high a price to pay for free speech?"

 

“No,” Bartlet replies, almost immediately, and Van Dyke seems shocked.

 

“Really?"

 

"On the other hand,” the President says, "I do think that five dollars is too high a price to pay for pornography."

 

Joss has to press her lips together tightly to hide her grin.

 

C.J. steps up to the plate. "Why don't we all sit down?"

 

“No,” The President says. "Let's not, C.J.” There’s that tightness again. "These people won't be staying that long. Al, how many times have I asked you to denounce the practices of a fringe group that calls itself  _The Lambs of God_?"

 

Caldwell starts. "Sir, it's not up to me to…"

 

“Crap,” The President says. "It is up to you, Al. You, know, my wife, Abbey, she never wants me to do anything while I'm upset. Twenty-eight years ago, I came home from a very bad day at the State House. I tell Abbey I’m going out for a drive. I get in the station wagon, and put it in reverse, and pull out of the garage full speed.” Joss notes Sam and Leo slipping into the room quietly, but she’s more occupied with the way the President turns to look at her. "Except I forgot to open the garage door."

 

President Bartlet smiles at her, and she returns it, somewhat uncomfortably. She’s pretty sure she knows where this is going.

 

“Abbey told me to not drive while I was upset and she was right. She was right yesterday when she told me not to get on that damn bicycle while I was upset, but I did it anyway, and I guess I was just about as angry as I've ever been in my life."

 

Joss feels sick. She’s all of a sudden very conscious of the letter in her jacket.

 

"It seems my granddaughter, Annie,” the President continues to the room, "had given an interview in one of those teen magazines. And somewhere between movie stars and makeup tips, she talked about her feelings on a woman's right to choose."

 

Oh _shit._ That’s not going to play well _anywhere_ , but Jed Bartlet wouldn’t be angry at his granddaughter for expressing her opinion. Joss has that sick feeling again.

 

"Now Annie, all of twelve, has always been precocious, but she's got a good head on her shoulders and I like when she uses it, so I couldn't understand when her mother called me in tears yesterday. I said, 'Elizabeth, what's wrong?' She said, 'It's Annie.' Now I love my family and I've read my Bible from cover to cover so I want you to tell me, from what part of the Holy Scripture do you suppose the Lambs of God drew their Divine inspiration when they sent my twelve-year-old granddaughter a Raggedy Ann doll with a knife stuck through its throat?"

 

The silence in the room is a heavy one. Nobody even breathes.

 

"You'll denounce these people, Al,” The President says. "You'll do it publicly. And until you do, you can all get your fat asses out of my White House.” The President nods at the visitors. "C.J., show these people out."

 

And then Mary Marsh, furious, superior Mary Marsh, who’s gone from having the upper hand to no hand at all in mere moments, bites out bitterly -

 

"I believe we can find the door."

 

President Bartlet fixes her with a serious look. “Find it now."

 

And then they’re leaving, and Joss is feeling the tension drain out of her shoulders, watching as the Reverend Al Caldwell stops to assure Leo - "We'll fix this, Leo."

 

Leo nods gravely. "See that you do."

 

They all follow in the President’s wake, drifting towards the Oval, and Joss is giddy with the thought that she might not have to hand over the letter in her jacket pocket after all, can’t help herself, and says, "Okay, can I just say that, as it turned out, I was the calmest person in the room?" 

 

C.J. nudges Toby as they enter the Oval. "Way to stay cool."

 

Toby gestures angrily. "I am not empowered to auction off the Bill of Rights!” But he’s won, now, so there’s no bite to it.

 

“I thought you were going to take a swing at her there,” Joss teases.

 

"She was calling us New York Jews, Joss."

 

Joss shrugs. She’s been called worse. She’s been called worse in this very White House. "Yeah, but being from Connecticut, I didn't mind so much."

 

"Hello, Mr. President,” Bartlet starts, standing behind the Resolute desk.

 

"Did you have a nice trip, sir? How's the ankle, sir? Seems to me we've all been taking a little break. Breaks are good, see."

 

They all stop, chastened.

 

"It's not a bad idea taking a break every now and then. I know how hard you all work."

 

A note travels from Margaret’s hands to Leo’s to the President’s.

 

"Naval Intelligence reports approximately 1200 Cubans left Havana this morning. Approximately 700 turned back due to severe weather, some 350 are missing and presumed dead, 137 have been taken into custody in Miami and are seeking asylum.” When he looks at them, his countenance is grave and solemn.

 

"With the clothes on their backs, they came through a storm. And the ones that didn't die, want a better life. And they want it here. Talk about impressive.” 

 

There are moments when Joss realises just how lucky they are, to be standing in this office, with this President, at this moment.

 

Joss makes no secret of her adoration for the President. Josiah Bartlet is a honourable man, a good President, a balanced Commander-in-Chief, and Joss Lyman serves at the pleasure of the President. With any luck, today won’t be the last day she gets to do so.

 

"My point is this,” The President says. "Break’s over."

 

"Thank you, Mr. President,” Leo says, and they all make their thanks as they move to leave. Joss is the last, falls behind just in case she’s going to be called back, for answers or explanations or apologies. The President’s voice stops her before she gets to the door.

 

“Joss."

 

Joss turns slowly, and meets the President’s eyes, but he’s giving her a wry grin. "Too busy being indicted for tax fraud?"

 

Joss feels her face redden, and the President says quietly, "Don’t ever do it again."

 

“Yes Sir,” Joss replies, and lives to fight another day.


End file.
